The emerald dress Sterling bought me last Christmas clung to my curves as I sat alone at our favorite table, watching other couples clink glasses and whisper sweet nothings across candlelit tables. My fingers traced the stem of my wine glass, the vintage watch I'd spent weeks selecting for him wrapped neatly beside my plate.

Five years. Five perfect years of marriage, and he'd promised tonight would be special.

"He'll be here any minute," I whispered to myself, checking my phone again. No calls. No texts. The screen showed 9:47 PM—two hours and seventeen minutes past our reservation time.

A waiter approached with practiced sympathy. "Mrs. Marshall, would you like to order? Or perhaps wait a little longer?"

"I'll wait," I said, straightening my spine. "He's just... tied up at work."

The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. Sterling hadn't been "tied up at work" on our anniversary before. Not once.

Across the room, a woman in her fifties leaned toward her companion. "Poor thing," she murmured, not quite quietly enough. "Third time this week I've seen her eating alone here."

Heat rushed to my cheeks. I hadn't realized I'd become a spectacle—the pitiful wife waiting for a husband who clearly had better things to do.

My phone remained stubbornly silent as minutes stretched into another hour. The restaurant emptied around me until only the staff remained, exchanging glances that said they'd seen this story play out too many times before.

"Mrs. Marshall," the manager approached with gentle firmness. "We're closing now."

I gathered my purse and the watch box, humiliation burning through me like acid. "He must have forgotten," I said, the words hollow even to my own ears.

Outside, rain pelted the sidewalk, matching the tears I refused to let fall. Sterling had never been late without calling. Never missed an important date. Something was wrong—or worse, something had changed.

---

"Flight 247 to Seattle now boarding," the gate agent announced.

I hadn't planned this trip. But after a sleepless night pacing our apartment, calling Sterling's office and friends until my voice grew hoarse, I'd done the only thing that made sense—booked an emergency flight to my parents' home in Seattle.

They would know what to do. Mom would make tea and listen while Dad grumbled about Sterling's unprofessional behavior. They'd help me figure out what to do next.

The plane taxied down the runway as I pressed my forehead against the cool window glass. Sterling's assistant had claimed he was "unavailable" when I called this morning. Unavailable? On what planet was my husband so important he couldn't return his wife's calls?

"Miss?" A flight attendant touched my shoulder. "Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you." I clutched my seatbelt as the plane lifted into gray clouds. The turbulence started almost immediately—small bumps that grew into violent shakes.

"Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened," the captain's voice crackled over the intercom. "We're experiencing moderate turbulence."

Moderate? The word seemed inadequate as the plane dropped suddenly, sending my stomach lurching toward my throat. Around me, passengers gasped and clutched armrests.

"We're declaring an emergency," the captain announced minutes later. "Crew, prepare for emergency landing procedures."

Panic surged through me. This couldn't be happening—not today, not when everything else was already falling apart.

The descent was terrifying—steep and bumpy, with oxygen masks dangling uselessly above us. When we finally touched down with a jarring thud, applause broke out in the cabin.

"That was intense," the woman beside me said, pressing a hand to her chest.

I nodded numbly, my mind already racing ahead to what awaited me in Seattle. Mom's hug. Dad's gruff advice. The familiar comfort of home.

But as I stepped into the terminal, something felt wrong. The architecture seemed different—sharper edges, brighter colors. Travelers tapped at devices I didn't recognize, speaking into thin air with tiny earbuds.

"Excuse me," I approached an airport employee. "What's the date today?"

She looked at me strangely. "October 15th, 2028."

My blood turned to ice. "What year did you say?"

"2028," she repeated slowly. "Is everything okay?"

I fumbled for my phone with trembling hands. The screen showed the same impossible date. Ten years. Somehow, I'd lost ten years.

With shaking fingers, I dialed my parents' number. Disconnected. Sterling's cell. Also disconnected.

A taxi driver helped me with my luggage, chatting amiably as we drove toward my childhood home. "You're lucky we're not too busy today," he said. "Traffic's been terrible since they redesigned the highway."

The neighborhood looked both familiar and strange—newer cars, different storefronts. When we pulled up to the house where I'd grown up, I barely recognized it with its updated facade and unfamiliar landscaping.

"Is this 1725 Maple Street?" I asked, though I knew it was.

"That's the address," the driver confirmed.

I approached the front door on legs that felt like water, ringing the bell with a sense of dread building in my chest.

A woman I'd never seen before answered. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Robert and Carol Hart," I said. "This is their house."

Something like pity crossed her face. "Oh, honey... you must be family. I'm so sorry—they died eight years ago. Car accident on Highway 101."

The world tilted beneath my feet as her words registered. My parents were dead. Had been dead for eight years.

In a timeline where I was completely, utterly alone.

The woman's words echoed in my mind as I wandered the streets of a Seattle I no longer recognized. Eight years. My parents had been dead for eight years. The realization hit me in waves, each one more devastating than the last.

I found myself in a small café, my hands wrapped around a cup of coffee that had grown cold. The patrons around me tapped at devices that looked like something from a science fiction movie, speaking into thin air and gesturing at screens I couldn't see.

"Excuse me," I approached the counter, forcing a smile. "I need to use a computer. I can pay."

The barista—a young woman with purple hair—looked at me strangely. "You don't have a tablet or phone?"

"Mine... doesn't work here," I said, avoiding the truth that my phone was essentially a relic from another decade.

She hesitated, then nodded toward a corner. "There's a public terminal. Five dollars for thirty minutes."

My fingers trembled as I typed Sterling's name into the search bar. The screen flickered, then filled with results. Most were for people I didn't know, but then I saw it—a massive billboard advertising "Evermore Group" with Sterling's face smiling down from above a crowded street.

"That's him," I whispered, enlarging the image.

The caption read: "Evermore Group CEO Sterling Marshall named Businessman of the Year."

I scrolled through more images, each one confirming what I feared and hoped in equal measure—Sterling was alive, successful, and apparently thriving in this future timeline.

But why hadn't he looked for me? Why was he using a company name I'd never heard of?

Then it hit me. "Evermore." I broke it down in my mind—"evening" plus "more." My name was Isabel, which meant "consecrated to God," but my nickname had always been "Izzy," which sounded like "easy." Sterling used to joke that I was his "evening person" because I always brightened his nights.

Evening. More. Evermore.

He hadn't forgotten me. He couldn't have.

I printed the address of Evermore Group's headquarters and asked the barista to call me a taxi. The ride was short—just six blocks—but it felt like crossing an ocean.

The building rose forty stories above the street, all glass and steel and imposing architecture. I stood outside for twenty minutes, gathering my courage, before walking through the revolving doors into a lobby that could have been a museum.

"Can I help you?" A security guard approached, his uniform crisp and his expression kind but suspicious.

"I'm here to see Sterling Marshall," I said, trying to sound confident.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but he'll want to see me. I'm Isabel Hart. His wife."

The guard's expression shifted from polite to pitying. "Ma'am, Mr. Marshall is very particular about unexpected visitors. Let me call his assistant."

Before he could reach for his phone, the elevator doors opened, and Sterling stepped out.

My heart stopped.

He looked the same—perhaps a few more lines around his eyes, his hair slightly shorter than I remembered. He wore a charcoal suit that emphasized his broad shoulders, and he was laughing at something beside him.

A woman stepped into view—tall, elegant, with glossy black hair cascading down her back. She wore a red dress that clung to her curves and heels that made her nearly as tall as Sterling. She was looking up at him with undisguised admiration.

I didn't think. I moved.

"Sterling!" I called, my voice echoing across the marble lobby.

He turned, his eyes finding mine. For one breathless moment, I saw recognition flash across his face—then it vanished, replaced by cool indifference.

I rushed toward him, tears blurring my vision. "Sterling, it's me! Isabel! What happened? Where have you been? Why didn't you—"

"Excuse me," he said, his voice cutting through my torrent of questions like ice. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stopped inches from him, searching his face for any sign of the man who had once loved me beyond reason.

"Sterling," I whispered, reaching for his arm. "It's me. Your wife."

He stepped back, placing himself slightly behind the elegant woman who was now watching our exchange with thinly veiled interest.

"I think you have me confused with someone else," he said, his tone polite but distant. "This is Vanessa Chen, my fiancée. We're late for a meeting."

Fiancée.

The word sliced through me, leaving me hollow and breathless.

I stood frozen in the lobby, Vanessa's arm sliding possessively through Sterling's as he regarded me with cold detachment.

"Mr. Marshall," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Please. Just talk to me."

Sterling's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. For a fraction of a second, something flickered in his eyes—pain, recognition, I couldn't be sure—before his expression hardened again.

"Tomas," he called to a man in a tailored suit who appeared at his side. "This woman is confused. She needs assistance."

The man—Tomas—looked between us, his expression carefully neutral. "Yes, sir."

"Sterling, don't do this," I pleaded, reaching toward him. "We were happy. We were—"

"Mrs. Hart," Tomas interrupted gently, taking my elbow. "Let me help you."

I yanked away from him. "I'm not crazy! I'm his wife!"

Vanessa's perfectly manicured hand tightened on Sterling's arm. "Darling, we'll be late."

Sterling nodded, not meeting my eyes. "Tomas will handle this."

As they turned to leave, I lunged forward. "Sterling!"

He paused, his shoulders stiffening. When he finally looked at me, his gaze was glacial.

"My wife disappeared ten years ago," he said evenly. "If you're claiming to be her, you need psychiatric help."

The words hit me like physical blows. Ten years ago—when I boarded that plane. When everything changed.

"I'll arrange for you to stay at the Westin," he continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "Tomas will escort you there."

"I don't want a hotel!" I cried. "I want to go home! Our home!"

"That's not possible," Sterling replied, his tone final. "This woman is clearly delusional," he added to Tomas. "Make sure she gets the care she needs."

As they walked away, I noticed how Sterling's steps faltered slightly, how his hand trembled as he pressed the elevator button. These small betrayals of his composure gave me hope—somewhere beneath that cold facade was the man I knew.

---

The Westin's lobby gleamed with polished marble and crystal chandeliers. Tomas led me to the front desk, where he arranged for a suite.

"The company will cover your stay for now," he said, his professional demeanor cracking slightly. "Mr. Marshall has instructed that you receive... appropriate care."

"Appropriate care?" I echoed hollowly.

"There's a psychiatrist affiliated with the hotel," he explained, not quite meeting my eyes. "Mr. Marshall thinks it would be best."

I laughed bitterly. "Of course he does."

Tomas handed me a key card and a small envelope. "Your room number is 1725."

The number struck me like a physical blow—my childhood address. Coincidence? Or another cruel reminder?

"Thank you," I said mechanically.

He hesitated, then added quietly, "Mrs. Marshall—I mean, Ms. Hart—perhaps it would be best if you... accepted help."

I watched him leave, his shoulders slightly hunched as if carrying an invisible weight.

---

The next morning, I stood outside Evermore Group's gleaming headquarters, clutching a sign that read: "Sterling Marshall—Talk to Your Wife!"

Security guards watched warily from the entrance. Passersby glanced curiously at my makeshift protest.

"Ma'am," one guard finally approached. "You can't stay here."

"Why not?" I demanded. "I'm not blocking the entrance."

"We've received instructions," he replied uncomfortably. "If you don't leave voluntarily, we'll have to remove you."

"I'm not leaving until Sterling talks to me!"

The door swung open, and Sterling emerged with Tomas at his side. My heart leaped at the sight of him.

"Sterling!" I called, rushing forward.

His eyes narrowed as he took in my sign. "This is pathetic."

"It's the truth!" I countered, tears stinging my eyes.

"The truth?" He laughed coldly. "The truth is that my wife disappeared ten years ago. The truth is that I've moved on."

"With her?" I spat, gesturing toward Vanessa who had appeared behind him.

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "Careful, Isabel."

Hearing my name on his lips sent a shiver down my spine. He remembered.

"If you continue this... display," he continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "I'll file a restraining order."

"You wouldn't," I breathed.

"Try me." His gaze hardened. "You're embarrassing yourself."

As security escorted me away, I caught a glimpse of Sterling's face—and for just a moment, I saw the mask slip. Beneath the cold indifference was something that looked remarkably like anguish.

Why was he doing this? What was he hiding? And how could I make him remember what we once meant to each other?